Star Wars, It Ain't
by Catalina Day
Summary: Chapter 7 is here, and it's angsting. Hard. --Dean gets a cool new sword. And now, in order to save the world, they have to fight pretty much EVERYONE EVER. Spoilers for season 4. AU. Some Drabble, some crack.--
1. Star Wars, It Ain't

**A/N:** So this idea has been brewing in my head for a couple weeks now, and I finally got around to writing it down. Of course, it was originally gonna be longer, but I find freedom in such brevity. This has the potential to become a series of drabbles/vignettes, depending on whether or not inspiration strikes me again. Like lightning, guys. Like _lightning_.

**Word Count:** 100. WTF?! I didn't even _try_. o___0

**Summary:** Dean gets a cool new sword. Spoilers for season 4. AU. Drabble. Possible crack.

* * *

**Star Wars, It Ain't**

* * *

_Swoosh_.

"Dean..."

_Vwoom_!

"Dean!" Sam reaches out to grab onto the older man's shoulders, steadying him as he loses his balance mid-swing from the unexpected contact.

"What the hell, dude?" Dean's features morph into an expression of confused incredulity.

"Dean, it's the flaming sword of the archangel Michael, _not_ a lightsaber." Upon seeing the scrunchy return of the bitch!face (a rare occurrence these days), Dean gives his brother a blank look. And then proceeds to pout.

"Yeah, whatever..." The next few moments are filled with petulant grumbling as he sets about turning the fire off... however _that_'s supposed to work.


	2. Stigmata

**A/N:** Takes place chronologically before Star Wars, It Ain't. Just how _did_ Dean get the lightsaber- I mean sword? I have an alternate version of those events floating, unformed, in my brain that is composed primarily of grade A crack. I'm not sure if it'll ever see the light of day, but suffice to say that it involves Chuck, a box, a stick, and a string.

This one is a bit more SRS BSNS.

**Word Count:** 472. 'Cause I'm a winner. *cheesey 80's freeze-frame high five!*

**Summary:** Dean gets a special message from the Lord who, it seems, has stepped back _into_ the building. Spoilers for season 4. AU. This one is not!crack.

* * *

**Stigmata**

* * *

Dean scratches restlessly at his forehead, looks closer at the weathered page of one of Bobby's books.

"Find anything?" Sam's voice penetrates his wall of concentration, and he glances up to the Bible in his hands, then the younger man's face.

"Nada. You?" The palms of his hands receive the scratch-treatment next, and suddenly his side isn't feeling so hot either.

"I could find more on Wikipedia; I swear man, I-" A loud grunt of pain cuts him off, and Dean doesn't notice that he's on the floor until Sam is hovering over him, eyes wide and panicked.

"Dean?!"

"Ungghh... Sammy?" His voice is soft and small, the way it is when he talks about Hell, which is practically never. A long howl, and there's something trickling warm and wet across his sweat-slicked forehead.

"Sam. Shoes." His words become agitated staccato bursts that he can't quite understand himself, but the message gets across and soon he feels the cool air on his feet.

"Holy shit... you're bleeding..."

Dean screams, laying on the floor of the study. Just barely catches a fuzzy glimpse of Bobby out of the corner of his eye before all he can see is red. They're drilling through his hands, his feet, his forehead, slashing at his side, and there's nothing he can do. Black chains, like a spider's web, stretch out endlessly from his skin and then suddenly-

Euphoria.

He can see again; he can _really see_. Everything has a faint glow about it. Sam is kneeling over his body, yelling, tears pouring down his face like a waterfall. His brother's voice echoes into his ears, light and airy. This isn't like dying.

His right hand is wrapped loosely around something heavy and cool. It takes him ages to look down, to raise his hand up. A sword.

And it glows brighter than anything, shining silver from within, bursting with hot white flame from hilt to tip. A voice, made of pure agonizing static, screeches through the air. The radio in the corner plays an upbeat country song before it squeals and changes the station itself. Through the cacophony, he understands a single word: "Fight."

* * *

Dean wakes up, gulping in deep, strained breaths of air. He catalogues his injuries: head, feet, hands, side. Still bleeding. Everything is silent. Sitting up is surprisingly not difficult, and from here he can see Sammy sprawled on the floor beside him. He's leaning back on his arms as though crawling away backwards toward Bobby, who is staring, mouth open, sawed-off forgotten on the floor by his feet.

Before he gets a chance to ask just what the hell they're gawpin' at, he feels it. Cold, steady; his fist clenches around the hilt. He drags it upward, studies the clean silver surface that reflects his face like a mirror.

"What the **fuck**?"


	3. Devil's in the Details

**A/N:** This turned out way angstier than I planned it. It started out so happy, too! *flails* Oh well; shit happens. Hopefully I'll write something a little lighter for next time. Involving donuts. We'll see.

I'd also like to say thank you for all the wonderful reviews thus far; I totally wasn't even expecting people to like this after the last chapter, but I'm so glad you guys do! *smishes*

P.S. I researched the Nephilim. Then I might've made a few facts up, based on certain assumptions made by others. But then, this is fiction, so as accurate as I want to be (such as with the Stigmata, for example), I can also totally make shit up. :D

Also, please remember that all of these are unbeta'd. All I check for is grammar, spelling, and of course some personal stuff; like if I feel something doesn't work or doesn't look right. I try to be my own beta, but sometimes I just fail. *sadface*

[/longest author's notes EVAR]

**Word Count:** 692. Jesus _Christ_, they just keep getting longer and longer, don't they?

**Summary:** The boys come up with a half-cocked plan, and Dean kicks a wall. And Bobby gets sassy. It's actually a lot more serious than it sounds.

* * *

**Devil's in the Details**

* * *

The devil sneaks in through corners. At least, that's what Castiel had told Dean last night, which is why they now find themselves in Bobby's safe room, surrounded still by another circle of salt. Just in case. You can never be too careful where Lucifer is concerned.

"Nephilim." Dean glances over at Sam's hopeful smile. It almost tears something in him, because it's good to see the kid hoping for something again, especially at times like these.

"Neph-a-who?" These moments are precious, when they can talk like brothers again.

"Nephilim. I've been researching it ever since I found it mentioned in the Bible. Well, them, technically..."

"Please don't tell me there are more crazy-ass creature features tailin' us, 'cause there's only so much ass I can kick in one week." Dean smooths a calloused hand through his hair in a telling gesture of unease, notices it, and brings it back down to his side.

Sam, to his credit, ignores it and rolls his eyes. "Let me guess: you need your beauty sleep?"

"C'mon! Everybody knows I have a natural beauty."

"Boys!" Bobby's voice is gruff as ever, and his stare just as piercing as in days before. Ever since the sword, he's been giving Dean this look that he can't quite place, but it's gone now, replaced by fatherly sternness in the face of the bantering brothers that they've all missed so much. "This is beautiful, really; any chance we could get back to fightin' the legions of hell-spawn that're achin' to kill us all?"

"Sorry," Sam says, features darkening. And it seems that the light in the room actually dims, but not from anything supernatural. Dean knows, because he's been there; to Hell. He tries to pay attention to what Sam is saying.

"...so I looked it up on the internet, just to confirm, and then in some of your books," he gestures to Bobby, picks up a book from the stack behind him and flips through the pages before continuing. "Nephilim are the offspring of angels and humans. It is not known how many exist, but they are said to have the powers of angels. It is not known if all Nephilim are able to hear and see angels in their divine forms but in all instances thus far, this hypothesis has been proven true."

The stillness of the air is broken only by their breathing. Dean's still waiting for the punchline.

"So?"

At the incredulous look he receives from his brother, the older man sighs. "Sam, how does this help us, exactly? We don't even know how to find them, and even if we _did_, how do we know if they're on our side? If they even wanna fight? These Nephilim are still half people, Sammy; and people are unpredictable at the best of times, batshit crazy at the worst."

"It's all we've got, Dean." His voice is as angry as it is desperate.

Dean takes a moment to kick the hard iron wall and let out a strangled "fuck!" in a bout of unadulterated fear and pain. He can feel their eyes on him; everybody watching, waiting for him to fuck up again. And he has to get out. He just wants to leave and never come back, just sit on a beach somewhere (not in Florida; some _fucked up shit_ happens in Florida) and finally be able to breathe properly again. Truth is, he hasn't taken a real deep breath since November of 1983. Hasn't slept a full night in 26 years, spending his time waking up and watching over Sammy.

He starts to turn, ready to bolt. And then Sam's eye catches his, and he knows he can't go. Not like this. It's spoken right there, like a contract written in blood. Whenever they leave this world, they leave it together. Because he knows that Bobby was right when he told him that his self-sacrificing nature was screwing them all. Hell, it had ended up being the death of him.

"You find a way to contact these Nephilim, I'll find a way to convince them." And then he's gone, metal door left swinging open behind him.


	4. Pisces

**A/N:** I like the name Greta. I don't know why. Hm. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this, and that it isn't too heavy. Not that I don't love me some angst, but I don't want this story to stray too deep into the depressing (as illustrated by the first chapter).

**Word Count:** 230. Ah, my brevity's back... *contented sigh*

**Summary:** Dean waxes poetic about their current shitty situation, and then everybody takes a trip to Reno.

* * *

**Pisces**

* * *

There are still some angels who've gone renegade, and they're still not exactly certain whose orders are whose. Zachariah is on earth somewhere, Castiel's pretty sure, shaking in his little angel booties. Or not. Dean knows they're looking for him, and Sam. Hunting them down. There's still the entirety of Hell to defeat, after all, and Dean is the Chosen One. Or some bullshit like that.

He's been practicing with the sword, and every day it gets easier, lighter in his hands. Dean isn't sure if he's getting stronger, or if the sword just likes him more. Sometimes he can feel it, pulsing with it's own kind of life. These are the times when it feels lightest in his grip. Occasionally he wonders why Michael doesn't shoot straight down like a rocket from Heaven and kick his mortal ass for playing with his super flaming angel sword, but then he remembers the voice. Feels the scars on the palms of his hands, and lets it go.

He still has questions, of course; he just doesn't have time to ask them. That, more than anything, is what simultaneously pisses him off and scares him the most.

* * *

They find the first Nephilim in a trailer park in Reno, and Dean thinks it's so cliché that he laughs until he damn near cries.

Her name is Greta, and she's a Pisces.


	5. A Good Angel is Hard to Find

**A/N:** M'kay, so... Thought it would be nice to introduce some Nephilim. And now we start gathering the army to defeat the Hell-spawn (and renegade angels)! Or something. I have absolutely no idea where I'm going with this at any given moment, so if something sucks out loud feel free to blame my lack of direction. I have no plot, damnit, and I'm kinda likin' it that way. Anyway.

P.S. _Why_ do I keep updating this much? It can't be healthy. I just kind of vomit words and post whatever I've got done. Not that I don't care about the quality, just... I have way too much time on my hands, I swear.

P.P.S. Hur hur hur. I just made you say 'pee pee'. *is an idiot* Just wanted to thank you all again for the reviews. Much love, guiz. Srsly. *hugs*

**Word Count:** 652. This whole story is like a roller coaster of words, people. Because I'm _amazing_. *is punched*

**Summary:** In which Dean doesn't get any, and Greta joins up.

* * *

**A Good Angel is Hard to Find**

* * *

"Full on gnarly black angel wings just sprouted from my back one day." Dean stares in awe at the pint-sized girl before him, a flurry of messy, dirty-blond hair and eyeliner and shiny metal rings. "Night of my eighteenth birthday. There was a lot a' blood." At this she pauses. "I mean, like, a _lot_."

Dean's not really sure what to say, so he just goes with a reverent "awesome". And when the girl smiles shyly up at him, like she's said too much, he tries not to grin right back. He apparently fails, because next thing he knows Sam is elbowing him none-too-gently in the ribs.

Right. Strictly business. He straightens out his beloved leather jacket, and tries to explain the situation. But, really? How do you tell someone that the world is pretty much on the brink of catastrophic end-time implodey-ness, and has already started to tip? Dean guesses that it comes easier when you had found out at a fairly young age that your dead-beat dad is really an angel of the Lord, because Greta seems to be taking it pretty well.

Well, after the initial first stage of hyperventilating is over with, anyway. And the fainting.

But in the end, she's standing by the Impala with an old army duffle she found at a yard sale last week, packed and ready to go. And that's what matters.

* * *

Phil in Philadelphia is another story altogether.

As soon as he opens the door and sees Dean's face, he slams it shut again.

"What the _hell_?" Dean turns his incredulous stare to Sam, who just shrugs and tries not to snicker. Irrational anger rises up in his throat like bile, but he swallows it down almost immediately. Things aren't what they were before, and Sam is still delicate. You don't just drain an innocent (though possessed) woman of her blood, open Lucifers cage, and spring back ready to go ten rounds. Dean should know, guilt still hanging uselessly over his head from starting the whole damn thing.

So he just flicks his head toward his brother in a "well, why don't _you_ try it then?" gesture.

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

At the insistent knocking, the door opens again.

"Phil Engestrom? I'm sorry about my brother, but i-" It slams again, this time with a lock clicking into place.

A laugh bubbles from Dean's throat, and he just can't help it.

Sam turns to him with a sour look on his face. "You suck."

Dean just smiles and takes out his lock-picking kit, setting to work. Once the door swings open, they eventually find the elusive bearded man huddled under a worn, blue blanket on the corner of his bed.

"Phil from Philly!" Dean yanks the covers off the shaking man, and continues, "We have come on a mission from God."

The dark-haired man stares up at him in abject horror, clawing at the creepy, stained bedsheets. "To kill me?" It's a whimper, and Dean sighs.

"No. To get your skanky ass outta bed." He reaches out a hand, palm up. "C'mon, Phyllis. Up an' at 'em."

When Phil is less smelly and more showered, and about as calm as he can be, he finally starts to talk. And talk. And talk. For a guy who's just been told he's not crazy for thinking he's half-angel, he's about as crazy as he can get. Okay, maybe the right word is paranoid, but either way Dean thinks he can feel a headache coming on.

Eventually Sam has to bring Greta in from the hallway to try to work her angel mojo on a very wound up Phil. She touches his forehead, and he passes out cold into Dean's unwilling embrace. They grab his medication, find some (thankfully) clean clothes, and leave Phil's rat hole of an apartment as fast as their legs will carry them (and, in Dean's case, Phil).

Next stop: Singer Salvage.


	6. Every Day is an Exercise in Futility

**A/N:** Ah, Phil... you brighten up my world, sunshine. Poor Dean. *hugs* Just some funny, random filler for you all. Because it was necessary. :D

**Word Count:** 142.

**Summary:** Phil is crazy, Dean is annoyed, Bobby manages to miss everything, and the other two are useless douche-nozzles.

* * *

**Every Day is an Exercise in Futility**

* * *

"Phil! Put your pants back on!" Dean runs his hand through his hair, and down over his face, features twisting in frustration.

Phil's just standing out there in the dusty front yard of Bobby's place, staring at the sun and blinkin' away. He rubs at his beard in a thoughtful gesture. Turns to look at Dean, glances down at his boxers. When he looks away again, Dean decides he's officially had enough.

The gray jeans hit the side of Phil's head with a mighty thwack, sending him stumbling sideways.

"I swear if you don't put those on, I will shoot you." The door slams shut, and Dean turns to find Sam bent over a book shaking silently, Greta crumpled on the floor in laughter. "You're all children."

That's when Bobby walks into the room, gun and cloth in hand. "I miss somethin'?"


	7. Nightmares

**A/N:** This doesn't really advance the plot much, but it does speak to the boys' respective states of mind, and that was pretty much what I was going for here. So, enjoy this for now, and hopefully next time we'll have some more plot stuff.

**Summary:** Sam has a nightmare. Dean has a nightmare. Really, it's just par for the course at this point.

* * *

**Nightmares**

* * *

When Sam wakes up, bedsheets fisted tight in his hands and screaming loud, Dean is beside him within a few seconds. Sawed-off in one hand, holy water in the other, he looks around for a threat before he realizes that it's all in his brother's head.

"Sammy?" He sets everything down by his own bed a few feet away, and turns back to his brother. At first he can't quite make out the mumbled words. But when he puts a hand on Sam's shoulder, and his little brother reaches out and pulls himself into Deans arms, he can hear it clear as day.

"M'sorry... I killed her, Dean, I... I..."

Slowly, he wraps his arms around the younger man. He wonders how their dad would feel; if John would still be proud of him now, broken as he is by everything.

"S'okay, Sammy." It's all he can say around the lump in his throat, his stomach tying itself into complicated knots. He grips his brother like the end of the world is coming, because it is.

* * *

Dean is all sweat-slicked skin and clawing at the bed like a wounded animal. It's only when he sees Sam's concerned face at his side that he knows he's been dreaming.

And, damnit, he's tried so hard for so long to keep this as far away from his brother as he could. Even after, because Sammy's always been the one to have nightmares, and Dean's always been there like a big brother should. And Dean really can't deal with any of this bullshit right now, 'cause it pulls at his skin and makes him weak. Maybe too weak to fight.

Sam fidgets for a moment while Dean starts to breathe steady again. He lies awake for a while, staring at the ceiling. Sam gets a book from his bag, and slides up to the window between their beds, where the moonlight is shining in.

Dean falls asleep to the soft swish of his brother turning pages.

* * *

The sky is so blue that it hurts to even glance at it. Dean swirls the last of his coffee around in his mug. Looks up at Sam.

Things have changed. And while they grasp at moments of joy, clear and fleeting, there remains the unbearable weight of the silence between them.


End file.
